


The Perils of Powered People

by FadedSepia



Series: The World Where Bucky is a Cat [2]
Category: Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Clint Barton as Captain America, Disasters, Drunk Dialing, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Dumpster Babies, Excessive Drinking, Garbage Humans, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Human Disaster Jessica Jones, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Kicked Puppy Steve Rogers, Lonely Holiday, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Season 1 Jessica Jones, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, accidental date, dolmades, pancit, romantic dramedy, tater tots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: A set of loosely connected stories set before, during, and after the main story ofSketch of a Cat,following the lives and adventures of the non-feline powered people of New York. You don’t have to have read any of that story to enjoy these stories, though some of them will reference events in that main plot line, including related to Clint and his not-cat roommate.For anyone who has asked,“But what about Buckitty?”Don’t worry. His adventures are being written…Gifted to the inimitable ElloPoppet for the spark that started this whole crazy train and general awesomeness; she is a delight!
Relationships: Clint Barton & Jessica Jones, Clint Barton & Matt Murdock, Jessica Jones & Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock & Steve Rogers, Pre Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Series: The World Where Bucky is a Cat [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555108
Comments: 99
Kudos: 59





	1. Garbage Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElloPoppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica Jones is in a bad way when she takes a short step off a low roof.
> 
> Clint Barton is too busy jumping at his own shadow to leap into action.
> 
> It’s a sadly normal night for an abnormal pair of disasters.

☆°•°•°•

Jess pushed her bangs out of her face, fighting the snapping gusts of wind up on the roof as she looked down.

She knew it wouldn’t do anything, anyway. Well, besides give her a terrible fucking headache, but the vodka was doing a damn good job of that already. Jessica lifted one leg, setting her toes over the edge of the roof. It was about four stories; it would _hurt_. Not for long, but maybe long enough to black her out this time. _Fuck,_ would it be nice not to dream!

She tipped the bottle back, letting the last of the alcohol slide warmly down her throat, then tossed it over her shoulder onto the roof. No point in adding broken glass to the dumpster bin. Shit was a bitch to dig out. She let herself tip forward for just a moment, leaning into the breeze. And then Jess dropped.

☆°•°•°•

Clint hadn’t seen her at first; he hadn’t been looking. Hadn’t looked _up_ in a while. _Stupid, really._ What the hell was he gonna see? Battered skyline and big-ass cranes, reminders of what he’d helped destroy. Nothing he didn’t _deserve_ to see. Looking down was easy, even if finding the bottom was taking too long.

It was the tink of glass above him that did it, and then it was too late. Fifty feet wasn’t a long way to drop; he was unprepared and at the other end of the alley, with no way of catching her in time. The impact was muffled – that bin was mostly cardboard and packaging rubbish – the woman’s groan audible. She was alive, at least.

Clint fished her out unthinkingly, already reaching for his phone. “Miss, I’m calling an ambulance-”

“No! No hospital…” There was a brittle crunch as her slim hand crushed his phone. Dark hair fell over a hopeless, startlingly young face as she frowned down at her palm. “Fucking glass…”

Okay, so she was a drunk person with _powers?_ That explained wanting to avoid medical care. He still couldn’t just let her just traipse off into the night, though. “Fine, no doctors, but you just broke my phone. Let me get your info to replace it. And I can get that glass outta your hand.”

“Fuu-ine. Sure, sure, I’m gonna go up to your apartment, alley man.” With her non-bloodied hand, she slid a business card from her jacket pocket. _Alias Investigations, Jessica Jones, PI._ It went straight to the point, at least. “Just send complaints… to me.”

“Look, I work with… with people _like you,_ and I can’t really leave you out here.” She seemed to be tracking decently – looking more wasted than anything – and Clint felt her weight begin to shift off of him. This Jessica was sturdier than he’d thought, if she was recovering already. “Do you even know where you are?”

“Red Hook?”

 _Little ways off_. “Bed-Stuy.”

“Huh… Damn. I can walk it off…” Ignoring her still bleeding hand, she pushed away his arm and leaned back against the dumpster.

Clint felt his stomach drop. She was probably going to wander into traffic or something if she didn’t sit down, and he wasn’t sure whether to put odds on her or the car for surviving. Either way, she’d be making a mess right in his back yard, and Clint just couldn’t let her do that.

Clearly less far gone than she appeared, the woman frowned back at him, brows knit over a face that was half glare, half-pouting child. “Oh, shit. You look like I just kicked your fucking dog…”

“I’d have shot you.” It was a more honest response than he had planned, but it got her attention. Clint leaned back, hands slipping into his pockets. A siren sounded in the distance, and he smiled, not at all pleasantly, head tipping toward the distant sound. “I could call the police and say a powered woman jumped off my roof, smashed my phone, and is now drunk and headed for the waterfront… or you could come up for coffee.”

“I don’ want _coffee_ from _you_.” Jessica scoffed, and feigned retching. “Still got some pride… and, ya know, my hand.”

“Just come up and sit down.” One hand motioning to the door, the other lax at his side, Clint did his best to look as non-threatening as possible. The fading sweats and patched-up hoodie probably helped; the bruises and strips of bandages on his face and forearms were more of a mixed message.

His drunk dumpster diver sized him up, eyes rolling a moment as she huffed. “You better keep your hands to yourself, _Alley Guy.”_ She stomped toward the door, still too unsteady for his liking, and he hurried to open it.

•°•°•°☆

Jess blinked muzzily down at the fresh gauze expertly taped to her hand. Whoever the fuck Alley Guy was, he knew his way around some bandages; she still had full range of motion, and the tug from the tape was minimal. She usually felt like she was wearing band-aid mittens when she did this herself; it might be worth talking to this rando after all.

Good thing she had use of both hands, too, since the one was occupied full-time trying to push away the slowly encroaching mass of fur and drool that was Alley Guy’s dog. After a few minutes, he finally took the hint, jumping off the sofa only to sit his furry ass right on Jessica’s boots. _Whatever._ At least he wasn’t drooling on her anymore. She hardly thought it was worth getting shot over – the dog was as busted up as his owner – but she had also thought walking off the roof had been a _decent_ idea, so Jess figured she wasn’t in a position to judge Alley Guy too much.

Just as she reconciled herself to the furry foot-warmer, her host appeared, sudden and silent at her arm, and Jess wasn’t sure whether she was still that wasted, or if this guy was actually that good. He dropped a mug on the low coffee table in front of her, dropping himself at the other end of the couch.

 _Huh._ Jessica had genuinely not expected that. “You really made coffee?”

“Yes, Angry Dumpstress.” He settled into the corner at the far end of the couch and took a sip of his own with a shrug, nodding back to her. “Said I was gonna.”

“Thought you meant…” She quirked a brow, smirking over her cup. _“‘Coffee.’”_

“What, Starbucks?” Alley Guy frowned, fingers carding through the disaster of blond atop his head as he shook it. “Hell no; shit’s expensive.”

Was this guy for real? Sure, he was a little older than she was, but that was pretty ubiquitous at this point. Jess eyed him over the mug, chin tipping up in a nod. “No, dumbass; sex.”

There was a sputter, a cough as her self-appointed rescuer choked on his coffee. “What!? Since when?”

“I dunno. It’s just a thing. Maybe it was GTA? Who knows…”

“Well, uh… no,” Her business card seemed to flick up into his hand as quickly as he’d appeared next to her. Whoever Alley Guy was, he was legit. “… No, _Jessica Jones_ , I do _not_ want to fuck you.” He shook his head sharply, then frowned down into his mug. Alley Guy leaned over his knees and gave her a sheepish half-smile. “Not that you’re not, ya know, pretty or whatever the right word is, but… Yeah, no.”

“So this,” Jess waved her hand at herself, “doesn’t bother you?”

“Naw… I mean, don’t go breaking my doors, and it’ll be fine.”

“No promises.” She and doors did not have the best relationship on _good_ days, and Jess wasn’t having a lot of really good days at the moment. Trish was doing that _thing_ , trying to get close to her, to catch up with shit she really didn’t want to fucking talk about. Jessica hadn’t had but a handful of clients in a few weeks, and that had been her last bottle – at least her last _full_ bottle – that she’d finished off and left up on this guy’s rooftop.

Jess still couldn’t quite remember how she’d gotten up there in the first place, so she ought to just be glad the person who’d fished her out of the garbage hadn’t started screaming or losing their shit that she wasn’t dead. It was weird, really; this guy was creepily chill about the whole thing. “… What made you fish me out of that trash bin, anyway?”

“You falling into it, for one. It’s for cardboard; body bin is two blocks over.” He smirked. “I’m the building super, and there’s a fine for corpse disposal if I don’t call for a special pickup.”

Jessica giggled; this guy was insane, maybe, but… “You’re funny for a whack job.”

“Whack job?” Alley Guy went from smooth hilarity to wounded puppy-eyes in seconds.

“You just dragged a drunk powered woman into your apartment at…” Jess had to guess at it, but most of the bars had been closing before she found herself four stories up, so it had to be somewhere around… “… three in the morning. Whack job.”

“I’m just charitable, Dumsptress…” Alley Guy pushed himself up off the sofa, giving the dog still sat on her feet a little pet as he went back to the kitchen.

☆°•°•°•

“Or insane?” His guest might have had a point with that.

Clint wasn’t going to think about it too hard, since it was probably true. What kind of normal guy would have chosen the life he had, let alone actually _wanted_ it? He pulled out the coffee pot, turning to look back at her as he leaned into the counter. “I dunno… guess I just kinda… been where I think you were? Are? Might be?”

“Seen some shit.” Clint tipped the pot in her direction, filling his own mug when she shook her head _no_. “A lot, actually. Just figured you must be in a pretty bad place if you got drunk enough to forget where you were and fall into my trash bin.”

“I… Fuck.” Jessica – maybe he could get away with calling her J.J.? – dropped her head down close over her lap, hunched above her mug. Her voice was low, embarrassed and a bit choked. “I didn’t _fall_. I jumped.”

“Ah.” He’d thought about it before. Never mentioned it to anyone much, besides Nat and Ph-

 _Fuck._ Now wasn’t the time to break down. He had company.

Clint chugged the coffee already in his cup, filling it for the third time, still mulling Jessica’s words. He honestly had considered it, but he’d have needed to be up even higher than normal to make it worth it; high enough that he would pass out before he landed. Falling didn’t bother him, but landing could suck. It wasn’t something he’d given any serious thought to until recently, but Clint had heard l’appel du vide often enough when he was up on a perch. “That bad, huh?”

“I wasn’t trying to – ya know – off myself. I’m pretty sturdy.” That coming from the woman who had walked off a four-story drunk fall was an understatement. Jess kept talking. “I wasn’t… I just wanna forget sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah.” That was what had led Clint here in the first place; back to this building, trying to do something simple. Well, that, and the mandatory year-long psych leave SHIELD had put him on once he’d finally gotten out from under the watchful eyes of his _team._ “I know. Seen some shit, remember?”

“Yeah, but ‘s different.”

“Oh, yeah, probably.” _Different._ That was the nicest thing anyone had said about Clint’s incident all year. It _was_ different. The only person that got it was Dr. Selvig, but – at least according to Bruce – he’d been a little off his rocker even before anyone had gone traipsing through his skull. Maybe that was the secret; maybe being nutter-butters would have made the come down easier. Maybe Clint wouldn’t still find himself needing to sleep on a cot in his closet if he’d lost his mind before all of that had started. So, yeah, Jess’s description was right.

It was damn _fucking_ different, and definitely as bad as or worse than whatever had made her walk off his roof. “Unless some guy with a posh accent went on a fucking joyride with your brain and made you kill people, yeah, probably pretty different…”

“The fuck did you say!?” Jess was off his couch and in his face by the time she finished talking, coffee cup still clutched in her hand.

Clint could hear a soft, vitreous _crik_ as she clenched. “Um… Jessica, you’re gonna break that mug, and you’re already down a hand.”

“Somebody was in your head?” Her eyes were wild, from fear, not alcohol, as she pressed in closer, nearly touching him, forcing Clint to lean back over the counter to keep it that way. “Skinny British guy? Hawkish nose, short hair and a fancy suit?”

“Um… human looking alien? Long hair and a magic box?”

“You’re sure?!” Jessica’s voice was desperate, panicked; she was starting to hyperventilate.

“Yes.” Clint put the cup on the counter behind him. He brought his hands up to Jess’s shoulders, pushing her away and carefully turning her around. Clint walked her back to the sofa, talking as they went. “I’m sure, Jessica-”

“Don’t! Just Jess... just...”

“Alright.” He pushed gently, urging Jessica to sit back down on the sofa. “Alright, Jess, but I’m sure.” Clint hefted Lucky from where he’d been sitting, head tilted in confusion on the floor, and settled the dog on the cushion beside her. The dog would probably do a better job at calming her down than he could; Clint hadn’t like being touched by people when he got like that, anyway. “I promise, Jess. He was a guy from space, and he’s been off the planet for months.”

“Months… Okay… Okay…” She pulled Lucky fully into her lap, trembling fingers petting at his fur. “I thought it was- Thought you were talking about someone that- Someone I knew.”

Clint hummed a quiet acknowledgment, but said nothing else, watching her stare into the middle distance. He’d seen that look on his own face in the mirror; a few times he’d asked Bruce or Tony to run the feeds back from his nights in the tower.

Jessica slowly calmed – from gasping to only just barely panting – until she finally sucked in a last great breath and huffed it out. She sniffed, swiping ineffectually at her face with the leather sleeve of her jacket before wiping her eyes with her bandaged hand. Jess petted Lucky’s head a final time, then gently pushed the dog back onto the cushion between them. “Sorry.”

“‘s okay. It happens.” Carefully, Clint gave her knee a very light pat. “You, uhh… You know a lot of mind controllers?”

“Just one.”

“That’s enough. Learned that the hard way.”

•°•°•°☆

Alley Guy – had he told her his name? _Fuck_ , she couldn’t remember– seemed serious about it. He wasn’t looking at Jessica any longer, eyes focused on the blank television screen across from them.

“What happened?” _He got mind-controlled, dumbass!_ Jess could tell she was sobering up; her brain was beginning to point out all of her _current_ fuck-ups, not just her previous ones.“What’d this guy make you do?”

“Take down a helicarrier.” The way he said it, it must have been serious, even if she didn’t know what the fuck it was. He shrugged, chin dropping into his palms. “Shoot Captain America. Kill one of my best friends and try to kill the other.”

“Never heard about any of that.” Not that she could remember, at least. Which, given the state of her mind for the past… _past_ , wasn’t really saying all that much. Jess hadn’t been in any sort of decent head space in a long damn time; maybe it had been on the news, but she wouldn’t have known. She mostly just used her phone for work and cat videos, anyway.

“Yeah, PR spin at its finest. Easier than saying I spent half the battle shooting at my own team.” Alley Guy shrugged, pulling a grin that was as obviously fake as it was pained. “So. Yeah, mind control. What about you?”

“Breaking things. Breaking… _people.”_ That had brought guilt, sure, but at least the woman had gone quickly. Jess could take some small comfort from that, and it wasn’t what brought bile up into her mouth most nights. That was- “Other stuff. Bad stuff…”

“Mm.”

The silence drifted up between them, awkward and tense, and made Jess antsy.

“So Captain America, huh?” Every kid in New York knew _that_ guy’s story. The ingenuity of science’s brightest minds at work. It would have been better if they’d stopped with him, well before they started in on- on people like _her._ “You part of that big-time super hero bullshit?”

“Uh… when they need me.” Her host shrugged. “Which is rare, unless crap hits the fan. More of a consultant.”

“Powers?”

“Just skills. Practice.” He pointed to the far corner, where Jess just could make out a compound bow gathering dust. “Been a while.”

“Fuck, you’re serious, aren’t you?” He really _was_ crazy, this guy. Jess slid her hand down into her boot, slipping out her emergency flask. “Damn…”

“Thought the point was sobering you up, but – yeah – I guess we can keep this party going.” Alley Guy stood up, leaving his coffee on the table and padding into the kitchen. When he came back, it was with a bottle Jess had recognized, but never even considered buying.

Not that she’d turn it down, if he was offering. Vodka like _that_ wasn’t any sort of thing she’d snub. Still, all this hospitality was fucking suspicious, and getting more so each second she got closer to sobriety. “First you make me coffee, and now you wanna get me drunk?”

“Hand to heart, I’ve been my own fucking train wreck for a while now. I don’t want anything but company… and you _get_ it.” She kept staring at him, even if she did slowly slid the little flask back down against her ankle. “Plus, the whole hero thing you brought up? I’m not big time, but I can’t let you wander off and die in somebody _else’s_ dumpster.”

“Alright… but don’t forget I can break you, Alley Guy.”

“Alley Guy? Oh. Uh… Probably should’ve led with this, but,” he tucked the bottle under his arm, offering her his hand, “Clint Barton; part-time hero, full-time fuck up.”

“Since we’re making it official,” Jess was a little surprised at the strength of his grip, but it wasn’t bad. She squeezed back. “Jessica Jones; too fucking pissed and sober for damn snappy lines.

“Cool… You’re kinda about to break my hand there, Jess.”

“Sorry.” Jess snatched her hand back with a wince. “I forget sometimes when I… ya know, when I’m trying to forget?”

Clint Barton nodded and thumbed the cap off the vodka. “‘s okay.”

☆°•°•°•

Tony’s face popped up on Clint’s screen as the call connected. [ _‘It’s five fucking a.m., Barton.’_ ]

“And yet you are awake.” Clint beamed back at him. Feeling Jessica squirm beside him, he adjusted the angle of the tablet.

[ _‘Because I haven’t gone to bed, yet- Who is that?’_ ] Tony flipped his glasses down onto his face, grumpily squinting back at him from the other side of the glass.

“My new friend who wanted to say hello.”

[ _‘I’m not contributing to the delinquency of a minor, Clint.’_ ]

“Good joke, coming from you. Pizza kid’s turning you into such a dad.”

 _[‘Not funny the first dozen times, Barton.’_ ] The camera angle shifted to one of the security cams, giving Clint a prime view of a very haggard looking Tony in one of his burn-marked lab shirts. His glasses were already sliding halfway down his nose, and he looked like he’d been awake for days. Knowing Tony, it might have been all week. [ _‘Who’s the lady?’_ ]

“I’m Jess, I’m more than legal, and you look even more pretentious on the little screen…” Jess pushed her hair out of her eyes, only for it to fall back into her face as she leaned in closer over the screen. “Still kinda bangable, though, DILF-wise.”

[ _‘Excuse me. What?’_ ] Tony’s face contorted, brows rocketing upward before slamming back down into a scowl. Clint wasn’t sure whether to giggle or apologize as the other man kept talking. [ _‘What is he telling you? Barton, who is this woman? What have you been telling her? She looks glassy. Is she drunk? Are you BOTH drunk? Are you alright, Miss…?’_ ]

“Jones.” Jess smiled, almost prettily, before it edged through manic into gleefully belligerent. “And I’m fine. Just said you’re ‘kind of a DILF.’”

[ _‘Pardon?’_ ]

“A DILF. As in a dad I’d like to fu-”

“And, we’re hanging up, now!” Clint tried to shrug he off, but Jessica was still in a full drunk lean against his shoulder. Unable to push her back to her end of the sofa, Clint was forced to pull the tablet away, ending the call even as he shouted. “Bye, Tony!”

“Who next…?” Still giggling beside him, Jessica reached for the bottle on the table in front of her. She paused, head snapping up as her just-focused eyes met his. “Wait, can we crank call Captain America?”

Clint blinked. He was still warm and a little floaty, and that seemed like a maybe bad idea, but – Lucky scrambled up into his lap, flopping over him, and – What had he been thinking about? Right, right… _Calling Steve…_ Clint checked his watch. It was after five; Rogers would definitely be _awake,_ so… “Sure. Let’s.”

Beside him, Jessica nodded with a squeaky snort.

•°•°•°☆

Jessica blinked awake, face to face with a panting, blurry mutt. Clint’s dog took that as permission to lean in and greet her. “Fucky, no.”

“It’s _Lucky_ , Jess…” She couldn’t turn her head to see him, but her host’s hand slid into view, offering a cup of coffee.

She managed to both stay mostly horizontal on his couch _and_ take the mug, sipping as Clint settled into one of his battered chairs. “You hungry?”

Jess shook her head. She sat up, shoving at the dog that was _still_ trying to kiss her good morning, and tried to make the room focus itself properly. It was better if she focused on the coffee. Her new… _friend_ might be as crazy as she was, but he made better coffee, that was for sure. Jess could feel the after-tingle of a burn, but she chugged it, anyway. Setting the mug down, she pushed up off the couch. “Naw… ‘ve got work.”

“Ready to roll?” Clint nodded absently, tapping at his tablet.

“Yeah. Where’s the closest bus stop?”

“Called you a ride.”

“That’s not really-“

“I got it.” He shrugged, waving off her argument. From this angle, Clint’s smile looked almost wistful before he shook his head. He stood up, leashing the dog, then following her out into the hallway. “You’re good company when you’re not bleeding all over my stuff, Jess.”

Jessica put on her sunglasses as they stepped onto the elevator. She wasn’t sure that she had been anything close to good the night previous – killing two _more_ bottles of vodka and crank-calling super-heroes hardly seemed _good_ – but she couldn’t argue with having been company. Still… “All we did was bitch and drink coffee, then get drunk again for like three hours.”

“Good company.”

“Whatever.” Despite looking like it belonged in an old shooting gallery, Clint’s apartment elevator actually worked. There wasn’t even the hint of a blood stain, either, even if the lobby carpet was worn clean through to the wood at the entry. “I don’t like owing you.”

“Fine.” Barton held the door for her to leave first. “You’re a P.I., right? You can pay me in intel. Know where I can find the guy that keeps popping up in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Maybe Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Funny.” Clint shoved both hands into his pockets and tipped his head back as he looked at her. “I’m serious… and kinda bored. Bein’ a part-timer gets old sometimes.”

 _Another one…_ Jessica held her laugh but couldn’t stop her grimmace. It probably wasn’t any use arguing with this guy. Unlike Trish, Clint had experience being in on the action; and – _just like Trish_ – he’d probably go snooping around her neck of the woods looking for trouble if she didn’t give him what he wanted. “Yeah. I, uh, I know him. I can set something up, but… he’s kind of an idiot asshole.”

“Aren’t we all, deep down?”

“Fuck if I know.”

A car beeped at the corner, and he nodded to the driver to pull around..

“Your ride’s here.” Clint smiled, looking a little less like a sad hermit, a little more like someone’s fucked up idea of a helpful neighbor. He opened the door for her, not quite handing her in, but clearly offering.

Jess wasn’t _that_ wobbly, but she could appreciate the gesture. “See ya, Clint.”

“Later, Jess.”

Jessica pushed her bangs back, turning to watch as the cab pulled away. With Clint looking after her – still staring like some sort of lost puppy as the cab rolled away – she felt like she had to wave, hoping he would see it, even if it was only one finger.

☆°•°•°•

Her phone had died overnight. It exploded in a chorus of dings and beeps when Jess plugged it in and turned it on. There was nothing all that exciting; the usual run of reminders about her self-care from Trish, a few clients checking in, a bunch of spam coupons and garbage, and… three text messages from an unlisted number. Jessica flopped back onto her bed and tapped to open it. “Well, shit…” She snorted, smiling to herself as she replied and rolling over to snag a few more hours of sleep.

•°•°•°☆

 **Unlisted**  
[ _Well fuck-you-too, Jones._ ]  
[ _I meant it about that side job._ ]  
[ _Also, don’t puke in the cab. They charge extra for that._ ]

 **JJ**  
[ (¬_¬) ╭ **∩** ╮]

☆°•°•°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next Time:** Clint Barton, Matt Murdock, and Jessica Jones walk into a bar…


	2. Faustian Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint Barton needs a hobby.
> 
> Matt Murdock could use some backup.
> 
> Jessica Jones just wants another fucking pitcher.

☆°•°•°•

This wasn’t really his beat, but Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t all that far. He’d been… _avoiding_ leaving the apartment, recently. Sure, Clint stepped out, but just enough to make sure Cap or Widow didn’t show up to _drag_ him out.

And, yeah, this bar sure seemed like the kind of place Little Miss Dumpster Diver might fit in – _Absolutely!_ – it smelled like whiskey and cheap menthols, underscored with the sweet rancid stink of all day-drunks. For work, or on a bad day, he could see Jess sitting here; hell, the way things had been going, Clint could see _himself_ coming here if the food wasn’t total shit.

This guy, though? Not so much. Clint’s new tablemate wasn’t someone he could have pictured in a place like Josie’s, let alone beating the tar out of people with his fists and a stick. For one thing, he was a lot smaller than Clint had expected. Not too short, just less bulky that the punched-up people he left behind might suggest. _Lithe._ Beyond that – well – Clint was pretty sure the guy couldn’t actually _see_ where he was going, and that brought up the problem. He’d walked straight in, not even bothering to wave as he sat down in the booth opposite, cane in hand. So either he was faking it as a cover – in which case Clint would have to kick his ass and feed it to him – or he was legit and something _else_ was going on. Either way, it piqued his curiosity some kind of badly.

The man who might be the guy the papers called _Daredevil_ had settled into the booth across from him, and Clint caught sight of the smattering of red flecks low on one of his cheeks. “You missed a spot.”

“Most people would assume it’s a shaving knick.” Snatching a napkin from the dispenser, the other man blotted at his face.

“Little to the left.” Had he known the man, Clint might have offered some assistance. In this case, though, it might be best just to wait and see. “And _most people_ don’t know what cast off actually looks like. Which means you must’ve hit something – my bad, _someone_ –pretty damn hard. Guess you’re faster than you look.”

“So was he…” His tablemate smiled with a rueful chuckle and a half shrug, tugging down the frames of his red tinted glasses to offer Clint a sightless wink. “Not that I was looking, in case you were wondering.”

“Huh.” _Not faking it, then?_ That made him feel a bit better. Clint might not like admitting he needed any sort of assistance, but he could admire this guy for being open about it. The speed at which his hearing loss had progressed was still a _thing –_ probably would be for a while – but at least Clint had stopped pretending that the little clip of plastic living constantly behind his ear was a comm unit. He’d finally dug out the second one, so now he didn’t have to turn his head quite as much to follow conversations, either. It was new, and uncomfortable, but it made the answer to the other man’s self-deprecating barb an easy one. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

The man stared, or at least, kept his head aimed in Clint’s direction; Clint imagined him blinking behind that crimson glass. He laughed and switched his folded cane to his left hand, sticking out his right. “Matt Murdock.”

“Clint Barton.” Matt had a good handshake, and enough callouses on his hand for Clint to believe he was talking to the right guy. That roughness didn’t come from pushing paper. “So the man without fear?”

“Heard that little epithet on the news. It’s not exactly true, but it sounds good?” Matt offered a sheepish smile, even going so far as to turn away and shrug. “To be honest, most of my life is a terrifying riot, but I just ran out of fucks to give?”

“I hear that,” said Clint.

“Good aides, then?”

Clint snorted.

“And _I_ heard that. You drink?” Matt threw a hand into the air, signaling for what Clint desperately hoped was a pitcher of something cheap and reasonably drinkable.

He leaned back in his seat, hands spread. “You ask dumb questions?”

“All the time at work; it’s basically what I do for a living.” Murdock rolled his shoulders back, taking a moment to loosen his tie. “I’ll warn you I’ve heard just about _every_ joke out there… because I’m a lawyer.”

“So the whole night job is your penance for being a bottom-feeder?” One of these days, Clint’s lack of a filter was going to come up and bite him in the ass.

Maybe, though not today; not by the way Matt Murdock was snorting into his sleeve as their beer arrived.

☆°•°•°•

By the weight and the barely-there slosh, Matt was sad to say that the last of their second pitcher was tipping into his glass by the time Jessica staggered – literally – into the bar. She was beside them, voice terse and smelling like roof asphalt and water-cut vodka a moment later.

Matt tipped up dizzily to smile at her. “Jonesy!”

Jessica Jones had an extremely frowny voice to begin with, but her response carried the derision of a scowl; probably an eye-roll, too. “I should never have agreed to introduce you two.”

“Aw, come on, Jess.” Clint reached forward, palm _patting_ on the leather of her coat. The air fluttered between them as he gestured. “You never told me Matt was so funny.”

“He’s a morbid, whiny, guilt-ridden little fuck with a death wish.”

Matt felt himself grinning for no reason other than he knew it would piss Jessica off further.

Clint laughed and the table bounced with his nodding. “Well, yeah, but… he’s _so_ damn _funny.”_

There was a long pause where – to the best of Matt’s somewhat beer-addled knowledge – Jessica did nothing but cross her arms and glare at them. _Probably._

“Well, this is either endearing or tragic as shit, but _I_ have spent the last hour proving that yet _another_ jackass couldn’t keep his dick in check,” Jessica’s boot heel _clicked_ against the linoleum, “so which one of you is switching sides? ‘Cause I’m not sitting next to either of you two chucklefucks tonight.”

“You can always pull up a stool, Dumpstress-” Clint seemed almost affronted, but Matt and Jess had gone around about this before; if she couldn’t have a view of the exits, Jessica always insisted on having one side of any booth to herself. Matt stood, scooting between Jess and the table, and sat down before Clint could finish his sentence. “- or not.”

It was only after Jess had settled – and taken and finished _his_ beer – that Matt keyed into the unusual nickname. “Dumpstress?”

Clint turned to face him, nudging Matt with his shoulder. “Did Jess not tell you how we met?”

“Oh for-” Jessica set her face in her hands as Clint spoke.

The table _creaked_ as it tilted; Clint seemed to have a habit of leaning on things, despite his size. “She jumped into my dumpster.”

“I didn’t _jump,_ Clint.”

“ _Walked,_ then.” Matt hadn’t known him very long, and he’d yet to get a good _feel_ for Clint’s face – how it adjusted to emotions, and how that might affect the sound of his words – but Barton certainly sounded judgmental; the man to his left spoke like he was probably giving Jess some sort of disappointed hero frown. “Walked like a drunk moron right off the roof and into my dumpster!”

“Jess-!” Being inebriated meant Matt had to over-correct a bit more than usual as he swiveled to face the woman across from him. “Were you- On _purpose,_ or…?”

Jessica huffed, lifting slightly before her head _thunked_ back onto the table.“What do you think?”

What did he _think?!_ “Depends on how many bottles you killed beforehand.”

“Oh, _fuck you,_ Murdock!” Jones’ boot caught the edge of his shin.

Matt shuffled, scooting closer to Clint, who heaved himself further into the booth. He shouldn’t have been surprised – they were friends for a reason – but he hadn’t expected Jess to admit it so openly. Although, not _everyone_ carried their guilt as closely to their hearts as Matt did, it still shocked him; Jessica had run out of fucks to give, which was something they probably ought to talk out, but, “I think that maybe we shouldn’t have come to _Josie’s;_ you’re not always a pleasant drunk.”

“And you’re one to talk, Red?” Jessica was still face down on the table, but her hand was up in the air. She was probably waving a big _fuck you_ at him; the beer made it easy to ignore.

•°•°•°☆

Clint shifted in the booth, trying to muddle together whether or not Matt Murdock was glaring at Jess, or if he just had an angry resting face. The last thing he needed was to be on the scene when two pissed-off, possibly-powered people got into a drunken brawl, especially given that both Jess and Matt seemed to leave a lot more broken bones and painful dislocations in their wakes than _actual_ murder. Clint didn’t give a fuck if he was being dramatic about it, he’d told ‘Tasha the truth the week before; he’d rather get shot and bleed out than get one more fucking staple in his skull. He’d just have to defuse the situation. “I’m up for leaving. The food _is_ garbage here.”

That _worked;_ not as intended, of course, but – really, for Clint – when the hell did anything? Matt Murdock turned to face him fully, tipping his head to the side just as Jessica Jones pushed up from the table to shoot him a muddled glare.

“You _ate_ something?”

“Who the fuck comes here for the food?”

Clint lifted a tater tot, popping it into his mouth as he replied, “Just me, apparently.”

“Well, the beer specials are great, but the food is – always has been and always _will_ be – absolute garbage.” Despite his words, Matt reached unerringly toward the basket of tots, grabbing a handful to dump on a napkin and munch.

“But besides the horrible food-” his voice dropped, probably as low as he could get it, and Clint almost startled as Matt’s face pulled into a – frankly – terrifying smirk; it was the kind of thing he would have expected from the so called _Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,_ but it looked _wrong_ when juxtaposed with the Matt that Clint had been getting pleasantly buzzed with for an hour. Paired with the voice, it was more than generally unsettling when Matt Murdock asked, “- why are you here?”

“I uh…” Clint mussed his own hair out of habit. “I thought I could help a little? Things are still a mess at ground level after the whole… I mean, I got a lot of it cleaned up, at least on my end – but there’s still a lot more city – and – to be honest, it’s like I told Jess – I’m getting a little, well, _bored.”_ There were only so many times a man could re-caulk a window before he started contemplating murder. It was true under _any_ circumstances; only more so in Clint’s case, since he actually _knew_ how cathartic hunting someone down could be.

“Your end?” The man beside him was almost back to being who Clint had come to think of as _Matt._

That was a hell of a relief. Clint might be chuckling to himself at _that_ bit of irony, but it didn’t make it less true; Matt Murdock was a lot more fun to sit next to than _Daredevil._ By a _long_ shot… Clint shrugged in answer, automatically tipping his head east. _Ish._ “Across the river. Bed-Stuy. The damage was minimal, so it was easier to mop up, so I’ve got free time. Plus, I speak Russian, Sokovian, a few others? I’m a good shot?”

Matt fell right back into _Daredevil_ after that comment. “I don’t like to see people end up dead.”

“Mood,” piped Jess from across the table, for once _not_ looking like a pissed-off, drunk, millennial train-wreck; well – no – still looking _exactly_ like that, but also as if – for once – she was actually keyed in enough to give more than half a fuck.

“What?”

“Mood,” said Matt.

Clint didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about, so he only repeated himself, _“What?”_

“It means, _‘I agree with you in regard to that sentiment.’”_ Jess grinned smugly, and Clint watched even more of his shitty tots disappear with a snatch of her gloved hand. “But _‘mood’_ is shorter and wastes a fucktonne less effort.”

“Oh.” He nodded slowly, making a mental note to add _‘mood’_ to his repertoire; it was a pretty concise way to get the point across. Plus, there was a chance Clint could get Nat to use it, too. They could probably get at least a few hours of frustration out of Steve if they added it in with _‘tea,’ ‘drama,’_ and _‘stan.’_ Although that depended on getting back to being able to hold conversations around Rogers without him settling into his worried-Cap scowl, and- Clint could think about that later. Right now, he needed to address Matt’s perceived issue with accepting his assistance. “Arrows are pretty easy at keeping the damage minimal, even at a distance.”

“How far are we talking?”

“Far enough.” Clint nodded to the woman sitting across from them. “Jess has seen me; right?”

“Don’t drag me into your stupid little superfriends club.” Jess waved him off with one hand while accepting their newly arrived pitcher with the other. She filled her cup, emptied it, and refilled it before she spoke again. “I don’t even want to _be_ in this business, so it’s not my call to make. Plus I’m not the one that gets all protective about _‘my space.’”_

“It’s _familiar_ and it’s _home,_ Jess.” By Matt’s tone, this was something they’d discussed – or fought over – more than once.

“Hey, I can understand that, though.” Clint nodded and shoved the tater tot basket at Jess. She couldn’t bitch so much with her mouth full. He turned back to Matt. “I mean, when you know a place, you stick to it.”

“Exactly. And people know you’re there.” Murdock nodded up at him.

“Speaking of, though-” Clint’s tater-tot theory was a bust; apparently – if she was determined to be an ass – even a mouthful of beer-soggy, half-frozen fried potato balls weren’t going to stop Jessica from talking. “- how does _nobody_ know who you are?”

That was… actually a reasonable question. “They do.”

By Jessica’s stare and Matt’s lingering swivel, he needed to say more.

“Look, I never made a secret of it. Folks know; they just don’t care.” Clint hadn’t exactly bothered to hide who he was, especially not right after what the media had collectively dubbed _The Battle of New York._ Well, once he’d been _released_ afterwards. Clint had still felt like shit – still spent some nights awake until dawn or sleeping in his fucking closet even now – so he’d made no effort to hide the fact that he was wearing tactical gear everywhere he went. Between that and the bow, it hadn’t taken long for the tenants in his building to realize their neighbour-come-landlord was also the guy that the news had shown shooting arrows at aliens from the rooftops. “I mean, the neighbors know I keep away the thugs and most of the trouble, and outside of my block? I’m just another rough guy with a ratty hoodie.”

And, of course, there was the thing that Clint found obvious, but at which the two other people at the table with him seemed to constantly fail. “Also, I stay mostly off camera. It helps that I’m not running around in a flashy suit or getting my name all over the radio. And nobody thought I _lived_ here, so nobody tried to track me down.”

Matt nodded slowly. “But you’re offering to help? Isn’t there some code or regulation-?”

“I’m _technically_ an agent of SHIELD, but I’m also on indefinite leave for... _mental health reasons…”_ He cast a meaningful look at Jess, and Matt swiveled, brows dropping to touch the rim of his frames.

“Same shit, different dickhole.”

“Sometimes I still-” Clint hoped his wobbly hand motions came across as something cogent. “Working helps. Taking care of things, finishing them, that helps.”

“And as long as I don’t make a big mess, or freak out my partner too much-” ‘Tasha would threaten to kill him if she found out he wanted to go back _into the field_ when he was supposed to be on recovery leave; she actually _might_ if she found out he’d done it without her.“I’d need to keep it kind of quiet, but it’d only be if you want help. As needed, no interference unless you asked.”

The man sitting at his elbow nodded. Matt Murdock glanced across the table at Jessica – she offered only a laconic shrug – before he extended his hand. “Deal.”

“With the _devil,_ no less. Probably a bad idea.” Clint shook on it anyway.

“Only if you make a mess. Besides, _hawks_ have wings, right? You’ll be fine.” Matt grinned, his reply a joke only he understood, and that seemed to be the end of things.

“Great, so…” Jessica tossed the empty tater-tot basket into the space between him and Matt, and lifted the beer pitcher that he could swear had arrived at their table full of more than just a lingering few sips at the bottom. “As the person not hiding behind a goofy-ass name… We need another few pitchers and a second basket of tots.”

“They’re burnt on the outside and somehow _still_ frozen, and you want to get _more?”_ They might have all agreed to be friends, but that didn’t negate the inherent weirdness of either of the two people at the table with Clint.

Jessica rolled her eyes at him, already waving for their harried looking waiter.

Matt leaned in toward him, voice a low whisper. “Don’t worry; we’ll just throw them on the nachos.”

“This place makes _nachos?”_

☆°•°•°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the move has happened and it… [did _not_ go as planned;](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com/post/614481085365157888/fanfic-commissions) I’m going to be keeping up with fic for my sanity, but things may be a bit harried for a while. Updates to the situ will be over on [my tumblr.](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com) If you need something to amuse yourself (we _laugh_ in the face of madness), or ever want to message me directly, [hit me up here!](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com)
> 
>  **Next Time:** Three disasters and a fur baby…


	3. Truth by Omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint isn’t himself.
> 
> Matt and Jess are kind of shitty friends.
> 
> And then things get weird…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **☆°•°•°•**
> 
> These stories were always meant to tie in with [_Sketch of a Cat_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832821/chapters/42077912) as stories that happened, but that didn’t fit into the plot of the main story. (Mostly little things, what if scenarios, or ideas that I couldn’t place well without going off on a tangent too far afield.) While you can still read any of these stories on their own without reading that story, this is a chapter that clearly overlaps with that story. It takes place about two months before [Chapter 1 of _Sketch of a Cat._](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17832821/chapters/42077912)
> 
> **☆°•°•°•**

**☆°•°•°•**

Clint peeled the cowl from his face, shoving it into his bag. He yanked out a sweatshirt and his ratty purple sweatpants, tugging them on in the darkness of the alley. Knowing this section of town, the worst thing he was going to run into was – maybe – Castle in a bad mood, and Clint would be gone soon enough, but – well – Captain America had needed to make another appearance, and Sam had already been in the air. _Fucking ouch, though._ It didn’t fit _well,_ but he only had to make it a few blocks, so Clint went ahead and shoved the shield into his backpack, too. It was good enough for government work, so he’d be fine.

There was a clatter behind him, and Clint spun, hands lifting, ready to strike at-

_What the hell, cat?_

Well, no, more like a _busted to hell_ cat. Its fur was matted, the creamy white of its tummy tinged grey and beige. It wasn’t the first time Clint had been startled by something harmless; not even the first time this month. The cat blinked up at him from the yellow puddle of the sodium light, taking a tentative step forward on its three little paws. “Mrou?” Its head tilted to the side, ears flicking up before lowering flat on its skull.

Clint knelt down, hand held out, but the cat backed away, bolting to the end of the alley; it scrabbled up onto the dumpster, then jumped over the dividing fence, skittering off into the darkness.

“Aww… bye, kitty…” He straightened, fighting a wince. Clint still wound up needing to brace himself on the brick wall. He really wanted to know where the hell Steve had disappeared to, if only so that he could hand deliver this damn shield straight into his scientifically perfect nose. Agreeing to work as his backup had been a favour – Clint’s way of repaying a debt – it wasn’t supposed to have become his second full time job. Or third? Fourth, maybe, if landlord was second and backup vigilante was third? Yeah, it might be true that he hadn’t exactly let slip that he was helping out with more of the street level issues, but… Okay, so maybe it was his own fault that he was overworked, but that didn’t mean Steve wasn’t an asshole for disappearing without notice.

Nor did it mean that Clint couldn’t be pissed about having to throw a hoodie and sweatpants over Steve’s uniform in the middle of _June._ It was too damn hot just on its own, but he didn’t need to raise the alarm that Hawkeye was moonlighting as Captain America. Clint knew that everyone back at SHIELD was still dealing with the fallout that had come from clearing the last of Hydra out of the organization, coupled with all of the aftermath building up to and following the failure of the Sokovia accords; they didn’t need the public questioning one of the few people that had managed to squeak out of both debacles nearly untarnished.

Maybe this whole thing would have been less crappy if he could have commiserated with someone – or not have had to run so many missions on his own – but that wouldn’t be happening for a while. Clint didn’t know what, but _something_ had happened between Steve and Tony, the kind of something that resulted in some major redecoration in the tower, and in Nat, Sam – heck, even _Scott_ – being sent off to cover all manner of assignments because – whatever the reason – Tony and Steve were mysteriously unavailable. Summer was never a _great_ time for him to be around the city, but – between dodging collapsing buildings and escaping a collapsing _country,_ well… The nightmares were back, blue at the edges and filled with whispers, and maybe Clint had only gotten so battered on tonight’s little mission because he wasn’t exactly sleeping.

 _But now…_ Now, he could sleep. Just had to get across the bridge and up a few flights, and then he could strip down, rinse off, and pass out. It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be, or like his injuries wouldn’t still be waiting for attention in the morning.

**•°•°•°☆**

Clint had missed poker night. It shouldn’t have bothered her, shouldn’t have raised any red flags – he was a god-damned adult, after all; something he never failed to remind her they were _all_ supposed to be – but – _But!_ – Jessica could admit to being more than a little concerned not to have heard anything after two days. _Especially_ not when she’d taken time out of her very busy schedule to text the asshole and ask what he was bringing. The _least_ he could have done was tell her he wasn’t going to be there. They were already down Luke, and – no matter what Matt might suggest – she was not inviting a fucking high school kid to even up the numbers. They might all be absolute train-wrecks, but even _she_ would have felt guilty about contributing to the delinquency and disillusionment of a minor like Peter Parker. Plus, Jess was already trying to curb her drinking; she didn’t want to have to cut back on her cursing, too. _Where the fuck’s the fun in that?_

Now, having been let in by a nice woman with two-too many kids, she stood outside of Clint’s door, seriously hoping she wasn’t going to find a corpse on the other side but kind of prepared for the possibility. It had happened before. _More than once._ Jessica knocked and waited. And waited. Knocked again. She waited a few more minutes – weighing Clint’s safety against the annoyance of his complaining – then stepped back into the hallway.

It took two kicks before she was in; at least Barton was still keeping up with his security, if not with his cleaning. The place was a wreck, and it _reeked_ ofstale food, stale coffee, and stale blood. There was a Clint-shaped lump on the sofa, but Jessica couldn’t tell if it was moving. “Hey, asshole? Are you dead or just dead to me?”

Clint’s mutt trotted over to see her, but Jessica’s eyes were trained on the couch.

A groan and a slight shifting answered her question, Clint managing to push himself up on his arms enough to blink at her before he collapsed face-first back onto the cushions.

 _Fucking hell._ Clint looked worse than she remembered seeing him; even their shittiest jobs – the ones that involved Matt Murdock and fucking ninjas – hadn’t left Clint this roughed up. Jessica pushed the door shut behind her, reaching for a prop to keep it closed. Her eyes landed on something that looked suspiciously like it belonged to a _very different_ Avenger, but she picked it up, anyway. Jess set the shield against the door, then wedged a chair beneath the now-twisted handle.

The dog trailed behind her as Jessica walked across the apartment. She sat down on Clint’s creaking coffee table, sliding her arm beneath him as she tried to help Barton roll himself over. “On a scale from _corpse_ to _shitty Monday,_ where are you?”

“Ughh… Maybe at _half Wilson?”_ Clint coughed, breathing strained enough for her to know he’d cracked a rib at a minimum.

She propped him into the corner of the sofa, feeling her scowl deepen as he flinched away. “Stay there and breathe a second; I’ve gotta make a call.”

“Not moving, Jess; no worries.” He tried to smile up at her, but that only made his bloodied lip more noticeable.

Jessica Jones wasn’t worried; she was _concerned,_ that was all. Clint couldn’t exactly be left _alone,_ not until she could verify that he wasn’t at death’s door, and fuck if she hadn’t been the first one to find him. Usually, Clint patched himself up, or got help from his little junior bird brat. What was the point of training a sidekick if they weren’t around to check on you when you got beat all to hell? _Whatever,_ there were more important things to manage. She couldn’t cook worth shit, and Clint needed something other than the sad takeaway living on his counter. Jess pulled out her phone, triple pressing six, absently petting the head of the dog now leaning into her leg as she waited for the call to connect.

**☆°•°•°•**

“Murdock, it’s me… Yeah, need you to grab takeout and hop the river. Something soft and easy to keep down… No, I don’t care what; you’re the picky eater…”

Clint was pretty certain there was – or at least there _should be_ – only one Jessica Jones, no matter what his eyes were telling him, and no matter how many times her voice was echoing in his ears. He shook his head a bit, watching her coalesce into a single hunched presence in his kitchen as he coughed. Breathing was a lot easier from this angle, but now he could actually attend to the tremor racing a circuit up and down his right arm. _Fucking vibrate-me-um!_ That was wrong… He’d figure it out in the morning. Right now, this couch was just too comfy, and-

“Stay awake, Barton!”

There might not have been two of her, but that didn’t mean that J.J. hadn’t maybe gotten magic; there was no other way she could have teleported across the room like that. Unless he was starting to lose time, which meant he was worse off than he thought, and that he probably ought to listen. Clint nodded, and Jessica’s magic doppelganger reappeared before the woman in front of him zipped her way to the other side of the sofa.

“Yeah, he skipped poker night, and I found him beat half to death and passed out on his shitty hobo sofa, so make it quick with the food, and bring your kit just in case… How many times has he pulled your smug busted ass out of a fucking dumpster?” Jessica leaned to push him back into the corner, haphazardly tossing the afghan over him with one hand. “No, I will _not_ call Claire; leave that poor woman the fuck alone, Matt… Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too, you crimson shit stain… And you better bring my two-litre.”

One minute she was yelling; the next, Jessica Jones was up in his face with a plastic tumbler of water, her other hand gripping his chin. “If I hold this, can you drink?”

Clint couldn’t nod, not with her holding his face, but he could mumble. “Think so?”

“Yeah, okay.” She tipped the cup, letting him drink, not even bothered when Clint had to hold onto her arm to keep himself from tipping forward. “You gonna be able to keep that down?”

“‘ll try.” Clint felt a little better with the water, better still when Lucky jumped onto the cushion between him and Jess, resting his head in Clint’s lap. He petted over his dog’s nicked ears, then turned – very, _very_ slowly – to look over at Jessica. His voice cracking, face feeling lumpy and sore, Clint tried to smile at her. “Thanks, Jess.”

She shrugged, booted feet landing on his coffee table, remote in one hand as she petted Lucky’s back with the other. “Thank me by not dying before Da Red Evil gets here, alright?”

“Yeah… yeah, alright.”

**•°•°•°☆**

Matt didn’t _need_ a key, but it would have been a hell of a lot easier, especially with having to balance his cane, a briefcase full of medical supplies, and two plastic bags of food. He tried to settle himself as the creaking elevator rose to the fourth floor, and – for the most part – it worked. Until he knocked on Clint’s door and it swung inward, the breeze from the apartment wafting a rush of scents, most of them less than pleasant. There was the usual lingering odour of machine oil, rosin, leather, and coffee that hung around Clint and his space, but overlaid atop it were others; blood, wet dog hair, neoprene perhaps? Kevlar? Whatever it was, Matt had little time to analyse it; Jessica Jones was waiting for him.

Between the way she was leaning and the tightness of her jaw, Matt was having a little difficulty determining whether she was _actually_ pissed, or just snarking like she did when she greeted him. “Oh, look at this; if it isn’t the other annoying red menace in my life. Just my luck to get visits from _both_ of you this week.”

“I really didn’t need to think about that.”

“Just like I didn’t need to think about _not_ getting my Seven-Up.” Jessica reached without warning, taking the bag of noodles and the bag of sodas and drinks. “That is fucking Sprite.”

Matt wasn’t putting much effort behind it, but he did try to push past her. “I was _trying_ to hurry.”

“And you are _trying_ the patience of someone who could really use a drink right now, so why don’t you leave the food and _hurry_ back to get me a Seven-Up, then?”

“Clint has windows, Jess, and I didn’t come all this way for your _sparkling_ personality.” They were friends – both in spite and because of their abilities to sling bullshit – and Matt could tell by the mismatch of her pulse and tone how upset the woman blocking the doorway really was. “Could you maybe let me in, since you’re that worried about him?”

“Fuuu-fine.” Jessica stepped back, taking the bags in one hand. The _thunk_ of her steel-toed boot let him know she’d propped the door with her foot. Jess stepped in quickly behind him; not too pissed, since – despite her words – she was careful not to touch him as she braced something – _somethings –_ against the now closed door. “You look like shit, by the way.”

Matt couldn’t argue with her. His tie was only half done, and he’d lost _another_ suit coat changing back into his civilian clothes after her call. There was blood drying into his hair which – though dark enough to cover the colour – still looked matted and unkempt, pushed all to one side. Matt’s thumb brushed his lenses, tracing the sharp crack in them as he slid them off and into his pocket; it wasn’t something he _liked_ doing, but it wasn’t anything his friends gave two shits about, anyway. “That happens when there’s no one around to pull my smug ass out of the dumpster.”

“But you still can’t seem to learn not to land in them.” Jessica’s voice retreated towards the living room, just as Matt heard the squeak of springs and a quick rush of approaching feet, human and canine.

“No! Sit down, dumbass; it’s just Matt!” There was a _whump,_ the squeaky crumpling of Jessica’s leather coat as she caught Clint in her arms and half-carried him back to the sofa.

“Sorry, Matt, my ears are out.” Clint’s cadence would’ve given that away. “Thought someone broke in.”

Matt shrugged, hands lifting in the hope that Clint was still looking his way. ‘ _Sorry. You. Hurt.’_ He skirted his way around Lucky, who’d loped over to nose at his ankles, and sat on the opposite end of the sofa, still barely warm from Jess having sat in it.

Clint patted the back of the sofa, and the dog jumped up between them. There was a bare second of high-pitched feedback before Barton slowly spoke, mumbling around unsteady breaths. “Thanks for the food.”

“Family-sized pancit from Delia and Joe’s.” Matt lifted his hand and reached forward, fingers aiming for Clint’s shoulder. “Jess said it was bad, but…”

Clint caught his wrist in the air. He let go near-immediately, but _that_ let Matt know he was probably even worse than Jessica had implied. “It’s bad. Noodles sound soft.”

“They are.”

The refrigerator opened and- No, that had been the freezer because Matt could hear the tinkling of the ice in the glasses and smell the familiar sweet-wheaty aroma of beer. “Get your ass in here, Murdock; I’m not a waitress.”

Leaving Clint where he was, Matt picked his way carefully around the disaster of debris on the other man’s floor, stopping next to the counter beside Jessica. “Thought you weren’t drinking.”

“I’m not, but you earned one with the rush to get here.” She forced the first glass into his hand – _beer_ –so Matt was ready for the second – ice water. Jessica dropped some silverware into his front pocket, back to not giving two fucks about his personal space, then turned around to scoop dishware off the countertop. “Just chalk it up to the devil and temptation, whatever the hell you want, but move your ass before Clint wants to help, too.”

“Doesn’t he have a concussion?” It was easy enough to turn back to talk to her as they walked, since he didn’t have to look where he was going.

“Might,” whispered Jessica, “Definitely a bad case of sleep deprivation and being beat to shit. He said he’s at _half Wilson.”_

 _Fuck._ Wade had wound up as their endpoint on the scale of getting fucked up a few months back.

“You sit on the other end, and I’ll take the middle.” Jessica slipped past him, only to stop abruptly. “Move, dog.”

Paws hit the floor, claws clicking on hardwood. Lucky brushed Matt’s trousers on the way to the kitchen.

Matt got comfortable, tugging the forks from his pocket, passing them to Jessica, who handed him a warm bowl – thank God it was a bowl, those were easy when he was this tired – and started shoving into his space; her bare foot wound up pressed against his thigh, which meant she’d crossed her legs and scooted closer. _That_ probably meant that Lucky hadn’t taken too well to moving, or that Clint had offered the dog a treat that was worth tempting Jessica pushing him back down. Matt leaned around Jess, dropping his brows and scowling in Clint’s direction. “I went through too much for this for you to feed it to your _dog,_ Clint.”

From the other end of the sofa, the battered lump that was their friend mumbled around a mouthful of veg and noodles, “Showwy, Mahtt…”

**☆°•°•°•**

Clint finished his second bowl of noodles with a sense of disappointed accomplishment. Accomplishment because he’d gotten them all by himself; disappointment because that should not have been something he considered a victory. It was a Thursday, and poker night was – _had been_ – Tuesday. Having stumbled back to his apartment after being _Captain America_ all weekend, that left three of his days mostly unaccounted for. Clint could remember stripping out of Steve’s bloodied uniform and fumbling his way into the shower in the wee hours of Monday morning, and there had been coffee in the interim; the scummy looking mug on his low table hadn’t been there when he left on Friday, and there was a lingering smell of it in the apartment. Clint sniffed. _Coffee and… lemon?_

He turned, looking to the woman beside him, chugging something brown, fizzy, and murkier than it should have been. Clint’s brain tripped through what he was seeing – and what he knew of Jessica – before he asked, “Is that instant coffee and Seven-Up?”

“No; Murdock fucked up, so it’s instant coffee and _Sprite.”_ Jessica shrugged and took another gulp.

Clint stared while, from her other side, Matt gawked in his own way, head tipping as he turned toward her.

The woman sitting between them rolled her eyes. Jessica set her cup down, looking between the two of them. “I’ve been playing nursemaid to you, Mr. Birdman of Bed-Stuy, and I’ve also been trying to manage the world’s worst fucking cramps without my _usual_ liquid assistance, so… Don’t judge me.”

“Ibuprofen and acetaminophen?”

“Right, because _that_ works.” Injured or not, Jessica still elbowed him. “Why didn’t I think of using _that, hmm?”_

“Hang on.” Matt set his beer down, slipping from the couch to retrieve his briefcase. He fumbled in it a moment before retrieving a small pill bottle, which he tossed into Jessica’s lap. “Here. Don’t _ask_ me what it’s called – I don’t know, and I don’t _want to_ – but it might cut through for you, Jess.”

“You, too, Clint; two ought to knock you out pretty quickly.” Matt nodded around the woman sitting between them, shrugging an embarrassed smile.

By contrast, Jessica’s expression hovered between shocked and her usual heavy perturbation. “Seriously, Murdock? Do you _know_ what this shit-”

Matt huffed back. “I just _told_ you I didn’t, but if it keeps you from murdering someone, Jess-”

“ _I_ don’t murder people… not really.”

“Well – by that logic – neither do I.”

 _Shit._ Clint was too damn tired – too fucking sore – to handle the physicality of their arguments, let alone to break them up. Better to cut this off at the knees as swiftly as he could. “I do. I’m good at it. I mean, I mostly don’t anymore unless I have to, but I still sometimes get paid to _almost_ do it, I guess?”

“Really, Clint?” Matt Murdock wasn’t in any position to play at being Clint’s conscience, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

“Don’t make that face, Double D.” Clint pulled Lucky in closer, but there wasn’t much point to trying to hide from the combined stares of his friends behind his dog. “I never _try_ to murder people when we hang out, but – I mean…”

“Is that what you were doing that got you so beat up?” Jessica’s face broke Matt’s semi-stare as it tilted into his field of view. “Trying to _not_ murder people?”

“Yup, people who really wanted me dead, but…” But it would’ve rubbed off a little of the shine on that star if Clint had gone around just _killing_ folks with the shield over the weekend. Might’ve been _fun,_ but… “I try to be on my best behaviour when I have to be Cap.”

“When you…” Matt’s doubletake was hyper-exaggerated because _maybe_ Jess had been heavy handed with sharing the beer since she couldn’t drink. He was tipped forward, leaning into Jones’ shoulder, asking, “When you _what?”_ just as Jessica shouted, “That’s the _real_ fucking shield?!”

“Where?” Murdock turned, scanning the room.

Jess thumbed over her shoulder toward the door. “Propping the door shut.”

“Aww, Jess, no…” Leave it to her to break his door, then jam it shut with Steve’s shield. Clint let his head tip onto his shoulder, looking back toward his front door

“What? It’s a good wedge… And since when are _you_ Captain America?”

“I can pass pretty well under the cowl, so… When he needs to be seen somewhere and he can’t be there – well – sometimes I _can;_ that’s all.” It wasn’t _all,_ not when Steve was kind of maybe missing and even Phil Coulson could not – or _would not_ – let on about where he was, or even what his last assignment had been. It wasn’t all because Clint’s being Cap had been prefaced on only happening when it was what was best for the team, and that _team_ was barely even cohesive.

But, well, Clint wasn’t going to let on about that. It was _Avengers_ business, and – yeah, Jess and Matt were his friends, but – he tried not to gossip about any of his work. He could’ve kicked himself for leaving the shield out, provided he’d had the energy and not wrenched his leg jumping over that second roof; that in and of itself was another thing to get pissed over. Clint had spent his entire weekend on the job, and there sat Matt and Jess questioning his ability to even do it, just because he’d gotten a little roughed up.“Did you think it wasn’t real?”

“I thought you might be a groupie or something.” Jessica Jones shrugged, leaning away from him; cleaning up a little had at least made her better at reading the room.

“For someone I _work_ with?”

“You are _literally_ wearing a _Hawkeye_ hoodie that I know is merch for the _other Hawkeye.”_

Clint rolled his eyes, easing his way up from his end of the couch and trying to ignore the slight popping as he did. “You’re both assholes.”

Matt’s whispering echoed softly behind him. “He’s not wrong…”

**•°•°•°☆**

He had hit a pleasant level of inebriated – at least as pleasant as either of them got when intoxicated – and Matt looped his arm in hers as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I still can’t believe that was real.”

“You look ridiculously excited right now.” Jessica shrugged as best she could with one arm – her right, _damnit_ – now partially immobilised by his hold.

Grinning like the loon he was, Matt Murdock spun off of her arm, hands in his pockets as he walked backwards in front of her, smile going smug as he kept dodging obstacles he didn’t need to see. “Am I not allowed to be happy, Jessica?”

 _Smug shit._ Jessica pushed him just because she could, not caring that she was trying to trip a blind, half-magic ninja; asshole was asshole was asshole, and Matt was asshole all the way down. “Be as happy as you fucking want, just… Usually you only smile this wide right before you absolutely lose your shit. Not used to you happy like _this_ when the stick isn’t out.”

Matt shrugged and turned to the side, falling back into step beside her. “Not every day you get to touch a piece of history.”

“Oh, fuck.” Jessica knocked her elbow into his. “You were the kid that _liked_ that stupid museum trip, weren’t you?”

“Oh, come on, Jessica.” He drawled her name, bumping back. “Really? You can’t tell me you weren’t a little excited to see that shield; I’d know you were lying.”

It had been pretty cool, even she could admit that, but Jessica wasn’t going to gush; she wasn’t going to admit the silly dreams of being that good, that _helpful,_ even. _No,_ maybe not, but she was going to hook her arm through his, maybe lean on him a little because she only had so many friends. “Doesn’t make you any less of fanboy.”

Matt snorted, but didn’t deny it. They rounded the corner, walking northwards. It was already late, well past dark even now that it was summer, but they were both more comfortable out this time of day anyhow; the man beside her especially, since he _liked_ being the reason some people in this city were afraid of the dark. That threw her off when he froze, unthinkingly pulling her behind him, listening down an alleyway.

Jessica pushed around him. She had to roll her eyes because, “it’s just a stray.”

What had captured Murdock’s over-sensitive attention was – as far as Jess could tell – just a cat. It was a _big_ cat, sure, but still; only a furball in an alleyway. It stepped forward, eyes reflecting blue as it padded closer. Jess could hear a soft jingling as it stopped, and caught sight of a collar cutting through its matted fur. “Mrou?”

“Or not… must belong to somebody.” Jessica shrugged, tugging Matt by his sleeve. “C’mon; we’ve both got work tomorrow, and people actually expect _you_ to show up.”

**☆°•°•°•**

_Tippity-tap tap._

There was something in the apartment with him. Clint was sure of it this time. _Not a dream._ His limbs were heavy, brain sluggish despite being somewhat awake; his body was still fighting to recover from the weekend, and slogging through the pleasant numbness of the meds Matt had passed his way. Clint cracked one eye open, trying to scan the apartment. The door was closed, the shield still wedged beneath it because – _damnit_ – even if it was her fault that the lock was broken, Jessica had been right. Clint could hear the muffled _whoop_ of a siren, and the apartment smelled a bit less of coffee and noodles, with a slight hint of cigarette smoke. The window was cracked open so he could enjoy a little breeze. And _something_ was in here with him.

Clint did his best to scan the apartment. Nothing seemed out of place, and there were no obvious threats, but _something_ was in here; he just needed to find it. Clint ticked more slowly through the furniture and detritus scattered across his downstairs – beer bottle on the coffee table, fletching supplies beneath, blue eyes next to the telev- _What the,_ “Fuck?!”

He tried to push himself upright, but wound up rolling off of the couch and onto the floor. Clint grabbed a knife from between the cushions, poised to throw.

“Nyrng ffruuwn…” Across from him, a large cat blinked, eyes reflecting in the darkened room. It’s ears drooped, but – seemingly not caring that Clint had been fully prepared to pin it to the wall – it slunk behind his television, jumping to the floor and padding past him, little paws scurrying across the floor; step, ste-step, step, three white-socked feet carrying it across the living room. It stopped, large head tilting to the side as it sniffed at the shield, tags jingling against the burnished metal. “Raum… ffruuwn.”

“Hi, kitty…” Clint stood, taking a step toward the chunky tripod cat sitting on its haunches at his door. From the corner of his eye, he could see Lucky padding down from his bedroom, tongue lolling as he hurried to investigate the noise his human was making downstairs.

That seemed to break something, to set the cat back to acting the way a cat should when a human went after it. As Clint watched, the fluffy cat ran like a shot, back across his living room, up onto the sill and out of the window. He followed; Clint caught sight of a fluffy tail disappearing up over the edge as the cat scampered up the last stair of the fire-escape and onto the roof.

“Bye, then…” Clint didn’t think he’d seen the cat before, and he didn’t have anything to feed it. _Unless it likes noodles._ Lucky did, so maybe?

Clint walked back to grab his bowl – still half full of pancit – and dumped his water into what he thought was probably Matt’s. He placed both out on the fire escape balcony; even if the noodles were a no-go, it would probably drink the water. He looked up, calling softly, “Hey, kitty? I brought you a snack."

 _Because that makes sense._ After all, it wasn’t like the scruffy little thing could understand him.

**☆°•°•°•**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **☆°•°•°•**
> 
> Yes, you might have thought it was a reference to the number of the beast, and maybe it is, but – on American mobiles – _6_ corresponds with the letter _M,_ and Jess _is_ calling Matthew Michael Murdock, so…
> 
>  _Delia and Joe’s_ is named after my auntie and uncle, who only sometimes complain when I drop by and drain half the bottle of sweet chili sauce.
> 
> My lovely beta-reader was a little surprised by Jessica’s take on coffee soda; it’s not my favourite way to make it, but it’s not awful?
> 
> If you need something to amuse yourself (we _laugh_ in the face of madness), or ever want to message me directly, [hit me up here](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com), [or over here!](https://twitter.com/fadedsepia)
> 
> **☆°•°•°•**
> 
>  **Next Time:** The Devil and Steven Rogers…


	4. Shared Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt wants a quiet moment.
> 
> Steve wants to go unnoticed.
> 
> Sometimes strange company is the best kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ☆°•°•°•
> 
> Both this chapter and the next take place _roughly_ a month prior to Chapter 9 of _Sketch of a Cat._ (Yes, I know I’m posting it now that it is nearly 30 chapters later, but I _started_ it in April of 2019, and then got busy writing the main story, so…) This chapter stands pretty much alone.
> 
> ☆°•°•°•

☆°•°•°•

Matt had been careful, choosing when he came here. He didn’t want to miss confession – not with the chances he took – but his schedule didn’t exactly lend itself to making the usual hours. This parish had, somehow, arranged to hear them right up until Christmas Eve. Matt was fairly certain that was breaking some statute of canon law; but – then – who was _he_ to judge that sort of thing? He shifted, trying to ignore the ache in his shins from the night previous and the last forty minutes of standing on the old flagstone floor of the church.

There was a squeak to his left, a blast of chilled air and the sharp smells of ice and cigarettes carried in on the wind as someone else entered. The man was big – both heavier and taller than Matt himself – but he moved quietly, light on his feet. The smoke wasn’t him; he was castile soap and too-sweet coffee and old leather punching bags. Matt knew that _last_ smell better than most, and it wasn’t one he regularly ran across out in the city.When he turned, the newcomer addressed him softly, in that whisper that everyone adopted on the way to the confessional. “Evening. You in line for…?”

Matt recognized his voice; aside from the hushed tone, it sounded in person just exactly like it did on the news clips. He shouldn’t have been surprised. This was that sort of place, and – while, no, it wasn’t exactly Brooklyn – the Kitchen probably still had more of the feel that Steve Rogers remembered. Matt couldn’t blame him for coming. It was quiet, and nobody looked too closely; Matt would know. “Yeah. Last one of the year for this parish.”

“I was surprised.” _Captain America_ nodded beside him, casual as you please, and Matt Murdock smiled.

“They’d be booked solid from Christmas to New Years, anyway.” The bookings would have been predominantly Matt, though. He’d have been in here daily, if he didn’t need other things, like sleep and food. Although, Matt was probably going to be getting even less of both of those, despite knowing he needed more; especially with regard to the sleep.

“Yeah.” Steve rocked on his heels.

Matt was certain Rogers didn’t know who he was, or that he knew who _Steve_ was, and _that_ was nice. _Very._ As far as the other man knew, they were just two guys standing in line. With the cane folded in his hand and his glasses on, Matt was pretty sure he was projecting _innocent blind bystander_ well enough, so Steve Rogers would be able to relax; already had, by the steady beat of his heart. _Good_. Nodding to no one, Matt let himself slide into the familiar tension; the quiet of shared contemplation and shared penance in the confessional line.

It was easier here than in a newer church; the space was small and Gothic revival, too many angles and hard surfaces to keep things from echoing terribly. It was _not_ quiet – not by any means – but it was a steady sound, and easier to push away. Still, it took work. Matt had to put in effort not to listen to the hushed voices from inside the little wooden booth, to try not to think about the woman in expensive perfume and resoled shoes who had walked in before him, trekked all the way _here_ to get that off her chest before Christmas. What had brought her wasn’t a crime, nor was it his business, anyway.

Steve Rogers cleared his throat. “Sorry. I should have introduced myself, considering. I’m Steve.”

“Matt. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand – careful to keep his aim just barely off – and Steve shook it.

He had calluses in places Matt wouldn’t have expected. Maybe he wrote? “I’ve seen you… on the news? Lawyer?”

“Yeah. Why do you think I’m at confession?” Matt grinned, and Steve chuckled beside him.

“Yeah…”

The confessional door swung open. Matt could hear the soft click of heels on the tiled floor, the creak of a kneeler being dropped, the glassy rasp of rosary beads slipped from a little bag. Maybe satin, maybe velvet; the echo made it harder to tell in here.

Steve cleared his throat, head tilting toward the confessional before he spoke. “You’re up.”

“Thanks.” Matt could say that – for once – he meant it. Most people were obnoxious in accommodating him, trying to help too much. Steve had to have noticed the cane and glasses, but he hadn’t made a point about it. Matt could appreciate that, genuinely. He tipped his head toward the booth with an apologetic shrug. “Might be a while.”

“Me, too.” Steve’s breath was a heavy sigh behind him. “Hope it’s fruitful.”

“You, too.”

•°•°•°☆

Matt preferred to do his penance right away after he was finished – just in case he didn’t get the chance later – but he usually made a point of being the last person through when he came in. He’d hung back outside before coming in, and _still_ wound up with someone behind him. With the church now empty save for himself, the priest, and Steve, it was difficult not to listen. He tried his level best, but Matt found himself stepping outside to at least offer the other man what privacy he could, counting off _Hail Marys_ on his fingers.

Even then, out in the street with the distraction of the straggling crowds, Matt still picked up snippets of conversation – _Wakanda, best friend, train, my fault, Stark_ – Matt was a city native, and any kid from New York _already_ knew that story; the only two Howling Commandos lost in war. The rest was probably about Steve’s work as _Captain America,_ maybe important, but not enough of an interest to him right now. Matt slipped back in only after he heard a low. _’Thank you, Father.’_

He quickly dropped into a back pew, already sitting when the little booth door creaked open and Steve ducked his way out. “Looks like I was the last one. Happy Christmas, Father.”

“And to you, too, Steven.” The second door to the confessional opened, then closed, locking. The priest swished up the aisle, cassock brushing his trousers as he walked behind the nave to the little side door of the sacristy. The sanctuary would be open all night, even without having any masses on Christmas Eve; this parish was quirky like that.

Steve knelt three pews ahead of him. It was a long while before he got back up. One of his shoes scuffed on the flagstone as he genuflected, soft footfalls coming to a stop when he reached the last pew where Matt sat. “Still here?”

“It’s a good place to enjoy the quiet.” One of the few he usually had to himself, but… Matt stood, flicking the cane open out of habit, gently tapping the stone. “But, yeah, I should head out. What about you? Headed for Christmas Eve with the family?”

“Nope. We’re all…” Steve shrugged, breath sighing out of him in a soft rush. He swallowed, heel tapping softly on slate as he turned half-away. “Sort of on the outs, at the moment. There’s an all night kebab place on 9th with my name on it.”

“Long walk.” Matt tapped the cane ahead of him as he made for the door, and Steve fell into step at his side.

He held the door, offering only a soft, “I’ve got it,” then following Matt down the steps. “Maybe, but it’s a nice night out.”

 _Nice_ was relative; it was _literally_ freezing.

“What about you?” Steve’s concern was a warm counterpoint to the weather.

There wasn’t any rest for the wicked, so the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen couldn’t exactly take a holiday. Though, he did have offers for some help this year. Jones and Barton had agreed to be on call if he needed them; but with how that had gone to shit the last time, Matt was reticent to ask unless he had to. Let his friends enjoy their holidays. He’d be on his own, at least until the weekend. “I actually have to go to work. Need to clear up a few things before the New Year.”

“Rough gig. Good work you’re doing, though.”

Maybe it was knowing who it was coming from – or maybe Steve Rogers was just that really _genuine_ kind of person where a compliment meant something – but Matt found himself straightening just a bit at the praise. He cleared his throat, and nodded. “Same, I’m sure. But, uh, safe travels, then. It gets rough around here some nights.”

“I- I think I’ll be alright, Matt. Thanks.” There was the barest chuckle after his words. Yeah, _Captain America_ was fine to walk through the Kitchen, even alone and after dark. Of course, he was also the sort of guy who would worry about someone else doing the same. “You good?”

“Short walk to my office, and they know me around here.” Maybe not _this_ him, but – in all honesty – this him wasn’t so much the _real_ him, anyway. Everyone in the Kitchen knew the _real_ Matt Murdock, even if they called him by a different name.

“Well, then. Happy Christmas, Matt.”

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

☆°•°•°•

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ☆°•°•°•
> 
> Yeah, this is the comic-verse, confession on Christmas eve, but no Christmas eve mass? Sure, why not, there are aliens and this is in the same timeline where I wrote Bucky into being a cat, so… Suspension of disbelief? (Also, this was supposed to be out back in December, but I hadn’t finished Chapters 2 or 3 of this story, yet, so it’s here now.)
> 
> ☆°•°•°•
> 
> Find [me over here on tumblr and send me a poke,](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com) or [over here on twitter!](https://twitter.com/fadedsepia)
> 
>  **Next Time:** Coffee, cookies, and a little something sweet…


	5. Minor Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is at a low point despite the high spirits around him.
> 
> Natasha doesn’t mind some dinner company.
> 
> A spark of warmth shines against the winter chill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **☆°•°•°•**
> 
> This fic _might_ be complete or it might not. I’m honestly unsure. I’m going to mark it finished, but you may want to consider this a lengthy hiatus. There are other stories that I want to tell; I’m not sure whether I’ll put them in additional side stories or keep dumping them here. For now, dear readers, I’ll leave you on a happy holiday high-note.
> 
> This story takes place immediately following the previous chapter. 
> 
> **☆°•°•°•**

**☆°•°•°•**

Even if he’d run into someone, at least Steve hadn’t been recognized. _Small blessings_. The beard and the beanie helped a lot, but there was no hiding his size or his gait. Running into _the_ Matthew Murdock had been a lucky break, and – if he was honest – a pleasant surprise. Steve knew he was famous, but he never felt like he’d earned it. That guy, though? Steve might not agree with all of his points of view, but he had to admire Mr. Murdock’s conviction. Plus, it wasn’t so often that he met someone known for both doing _good_ and doing it _well;_ for the right reasons, and within the bounds of the law.

Mr. Murdock had been on the news in the spring, one face among many in a group of lawyers who’d represented enhanced individuals that had gone to D.C. to protest the passage of the Sokovia accords. He had seemed trustworthy, even at a distance, and Matt certainly wasn’t difficult to talk to. Steve couldn’t deny how easy it was to open up to someone he knew wasn’t staring at him, judging his every move; someone who didn’t immediately know who he was. _Rare thing, anymore._

Steve tugged his phone from his pocket, turning it on now that he was out of church. He wasn’t expecting anything, so the soft _ding_ of a waiting message was a surprise.

 _ **ArachNat  
**_[ _Are you busy tonight?_ ]

 _Huh._ So he’d been wrong. Steve turned the corner, pausing beneath an awning to type out a response.

 _ **Steven G  
**_[ _I’m out and heading to dinner, but I can change my plans._ ]

 _ **ArachNat  
**_[ _That’s alright. I thought I’d go out, myself._ ]  
[ _Enjoy your meal._ ]

 _ **Steven G  
**_[ _You, too!_ ]

Phone away, Steve shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, leaning into the wind a bit as he walked. Despite the hours and the date, the street was crowded, flowing in waves dictated by the blinking red and white of the crosswalk lights, snow drifting on the wind that shot between the buildings. It clung on the wreathes, the decorations, the bits and baubles set out for the season, coating them in a fine white powder, glassy and glinting.

_Damn._

As comfortable as it might be for him, especially with how hot he got under more than one or two layers, Steve didn’t like to have to _see_ the snow that came with the cold. It wasn’t a _thing_ – nowhere near Tony’s touch refusals or Clint’s hatred for blue neon – but it was _something;_ something that still sometimes bothered him elsewhere, but especially bothered him _here_ and _now._

Burying Bucky should have made it easier, but it had just brought home how much he’d missed; how much Steve had fucked u- _No._ Steve Rogers took a deep breath. He’d slogged through the slush to Hell’s Kitchen to go to confession, and there was no point in wasting those few snatched moments of peace. It might not be the result he’d hoped for in the summer, but it was what he had. The new year was starting in a week, and there was an order of stuffed grape leaves with Steve’s name on it. _That’s gotta be enough._ His huffed breath left a tiny trail of clouds behind him as Steve Rogers walked on.

**•°•°•°☆**

He recognized her hair from across the street, even _before_ Natasha waved at him through the window. Steve snorted softly, shaking his head; he shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d recommended this place, after all, and Nat rarely messaged him out of the blue. The bell above the door jingled as he entered, walking right to the booth she’d chosen, obviously because it had the best sightlines in the restaurant. “Agent Romanov.”

“Captain Rogers.” Natasha smirked as she nodded in greeting. Two glasses of water sat on the table, along with a few near empty plates.

“Didn’t realize I’d kept you waiting.”

“You missed the dolmades.”

Steve scooted into the booth, shrugging out of his coat once he was seated. “Really? Those orders are huge.”

“And delicious.” Natasha pushed a plate towards him, offering the last two with a knowing tip of her head. “I can share.”

“Thank you.” Steve took the plate happily, not bothering with the silverware as he snatched them from the plate and shoved them into his mouth. He had to assume that Natasha knew the wait-staff – probably best to assume there was very little she _didn’t_ know at this point, all things considered – because another plate of food appeared while he was still chewing, and Steve knew that he hadn’t seen a signal or anything that might have been a request. Not that he was going to complain. Nat preemptively choosing the food saved Steve the trouble of having to talk. _Or think._

He ate his way through a second order of stuffed grape leaves and grilled meat in near silence, grateful when Natasha at least made a point of eating some of the rice and meat set on the table between them; Steve hated eating alone, which had been setting his meal schedule haywire recently. It was only when the plates were nearly clean and stacked that he managed anything more than pleased mumbling, directing a question to the woman across the table. “How’d you know?”

“I noticed some _tension_ between you and Agent Coulson during that training supervision up-state last week and – after this morning – I had a feeling.” Natasha Romanov had an entire lexicon of shrugs, but Steve was only just learning how to read them. “Did you go to mass?”

“Confession.” Steve shook his head, pushing back to sprawl a bit on his side of the booth. “I’ll be up for the morning service, though.”

“You mean still?”

“Yeah.” Steve wasn’t sure why he felt sheepish admitting that. “Yeah, still.”

**☆°•°•°•**

Natasha might have started trying to keep in touch with Steve more because she’d been curious about his mission – later because she’d needed his credentials – but she didn’t make a habit of lying to herself when she could help it; Natasha genuinely enjoyed Steve’s company. She watched him stacking the plates, nearly bussing the table before leaning back against his side of the booth. Natasha hadn’t eaten much after he’d arrived, and she still had a little room for desert. “Do you like Turkish style coffee?”

Steve tilted his head in a pleasant little shrug, blue eyes curious. “Can I add sugar?”

“ _I_ don’t need to.” Not at this place. The strong, sweet coffee was perfect, even _without_ pairing it with one of those not-so-little pistachio cookies, although Natasha _could_ see a few behind the glass of the little countertop bakery case.

Steve’s gaze followed hers as he spoke. “Then I’ll try it.”

“Cookies?”

“Always.”

“Coffee and cookies, then.” Natasha wasn’t a regular in too many places – better if there were few places she was easily recognized – but she’d crossed a number of lines off her ledger helping the owner out years ago, so she could afford to be known here. Which, of course, meant that she didn’t even need to ask outright; Natasha only had to say _thank you_ when the cups and plated sweets arrived at their booth. She slid the plate across to her tablemate, tapping it against Steve’s fingers. “Go on.”

Steve blushed at the tips of his ears, pushing down another shy smile as he took one of the cookies for himself. “Thank you. Got a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“I _noticed.”_ It was hard to miss the way that anything remotely sweet got scarce whenever Steve was near it for too long. Natasha had mentioned it to Bruce last year; the doctor had admitted to mislabelling some of the food he kept in the communal kitchen for just that reason. Steve Rogers saying he had a _bit_ of a sweet tooth was akin to Natasha saying she had a _few_ knives. “Though, I have to admit that I’m kind of surprised. Wasn’t sugar rationed?”

“It’s because I needed calories.” Steve had been halfway through the cookie. He dunked the second half into his tiny cup of coffee, finishing it before he spoke again. “Back when – well – SSR needed to keep me fed in the field; candy and such were a simple way to do that. I’ve always liked sweet things, though, and – you’re right – this is _very_ good coffee.”

“Glad you like it, then.” Natasha got a nod for her trouble as she chose a cookie for herself. Steve was on his second, taking sips of coffee in between bites. Natasha had to smirk; in his haste, he’d wound up with a dusting of powdered sugar in his beard. She lifted her own coffee as she asked, “Can I take it you’re not complaining about the cookies, either?”

“I’m not picky, and I’ve never had _these.”_ Steve tipped his cup toward her in a tiny salute. “Can’t be too shy about trying things, not at my age.”

“Because you’re so absolutely _decrepit.”_ Natasha didn’t often roll her eyes, but Steve had earned it. Although, when it came to adventurous food, she certainly _had_ seen him stretch far beyond most people’s comfort zones, her own included. “I remember that abomination you and Clint made last year.”

“It was good-”

“I’m talking about the chunky peanut butter and Reese’s pieces sandwich.”

“There was banana and marshmallow fluff, too.” Steve offered a sheepish little shrug and grin. “Honestly? It wasn’t all that bad.”

“Fluff I could tolerate-” Natasha liked the flavour, if not always the texture, “but not banana.”

“Agreed; bananas don’t taste right anymore.” He huffed softly through his nose. “Apparently, all the ones I used to eat went _extinct_ before they thawed me out.”

“Clint told me that. It’s why circus peanuts taste funny.”

“They taste like bananas are _supposed_ to taste.” Steve reached for a napkin, cleaning the sugar from his fingers, if not his face. It was almost cute.

Natasha took another cookie for herself. She was due to take that one and at least two more of them, but she was also having a much better evening than Steve seemed to be, so maybe she’d leave that third one for him. Her only plan for the day had been to swing by the facility upstate to transfer a few documents for another identity. If Natasha had – _accidentally_ – run into Steve on her way past the range and – _perhaps_ – mentioned this place in conversation in the hope he _might_ stop by, well… It wasn’t like she didn’t eat here two or three times a week when she was in the city anyway; clearly, their meeting was just a happy coincidence, now wasn’t it? It _certainly_ wasn’t any fault of _hers_ that Steve Rogers was prone to half-starving himself when stressed – though it was hardly the best coping mechanism – so Natasha was really only helping out a _friend_ in need of a meal and some company.

She could feel the smirk trying to press through her pleasantly relaxed face; Natasha kept her lips from quirking too much by finishing the rest of her cookie in a single delicious – if somewhat _uncouth_ – bite.

“Glad to know I’m not the only one that thought they were good.” Steve chuckled before he dropped his chin onto the back of his hand, face sobering a bit as he looked at her. “Glad I ran into you, too, but I’m surprised you’re not celebrating with Hawkeye. Are you doing something tomorrow?”

 _Sleeping._ Beyond that, Natasha didn’t see herself doing much except putting on a peel-off charcoal face mask, opening a good bottle of wine, and settling down with Liho to watch sappy movies. Or the _Twilight Zone._ Her Christmas present to herself was the same thing every year; _rest._ Natasha glanced back at Steve’s semi-expectant face. Any other night, she might not have wanted to burst his bubble, but it was pretty clear she wasn’t alone in not being haunted by the holiday spirit. “You’ve read our files, Steve. Christmas was never _good_ for Clint, and I don’t really have any traditions…” _that I’d tell you about just yet._

**•°•°•°☆**

“Oh.” _Fuck._ Despite having perked up during the course of the meal, Steve could feel himself frowning a bit after that comment. “I just thought you might have a – _well_ – a _Delta_ tradition or something?” Nat and Clint shared a lot of those.

“We do New Year’s day hangover brunch with Phil.” Natasha reached for her third cookie, snapping it in half, and that half in half again, nibbling at one of the quarters, barely more than a bite; Steve wondered if she was fidgeting, considering she’d just shoved nearly an entire cookie into her mouth a few minutes ago. Nat shrugged, eyes cast down toward her plate. “Assuming we’re all available and in the country, which I won’t be, so… Nothing this year.”

Steve hadn’t read the full mission briefing, but – for once – he’d known _why_ Natasha was going out on assignment, if not where and when. It was because of him; SHIELD was calling in the Black Widow to follow up on a Hydra straggler that they hoped would get them more information relevant to the mission he and Tony had both managed to botch. Natasha was going to miss her one holiday event chasing leads for a mission she didn’t even know about, and it was Steve’s damn fault. If Stark had been one minute faster – or if Steve had thrown one punch _less_ – they might have been able to question the Hydra operative they _had_ managed to catch; the man had _lived,_ but that didn’t mean he was coherent. _Or intact._ Steve shook off the thought, refocusing his attention on his dining partner. “I haven’t seen much of either of you lately, but especially Clint. What have you been up to? I mean, that you can tell me.”

“I’ve been travelling because – apparently – _some_ people can’t.” Head still lowered, Natasha looked back at him from beneath her lashes, eyes tight.“Clint’s on a solo job here, though.”

“Yeah?” Steve could read the judgment on her face and in her words, but chose not to dwell on it; he knew damn well who _some people_ were. “Good to hear. About Clint. I was getting – not _worried_ – but…”

“Concerned?”

“Yes. He’s been scarce since…” Since he’d filled in as Cap while Steve was trying to mop up the mess after the _Accords,_ along with everything else that had followed. Clint had also been notably absent when certain people had disappeared from the raft; Steve couldn’t say Hawkeye was anything less than a team player, just like he couldn’t help blaming himself in large part for Clint’s apparent case of burnout. “It wasn’t an easy year, and I know Clint can get a little…” _Self-hazardous._ Not to the point of purposeful injury, only neglect now and again, but… “We all get caught up in our heads sometimes.”

Natasha reached across the table, hand squeezing his. “I think this… this project means a lot to him.”

“I’m guessing it’s classified?” Everything in their lives of any substance was. Well, with the exception of things that had been broadcast to the world, or printed in textbooks for seven or so decades. Steve dreaded the day this mission wrapped – especially given the lack of progress of the past six months – but at least ending it might get him back to a more regular schedule. “I understand; summers are bad for Clint, but I had hoped we’d pick back up with practice in the fall.”

“Clint got so wrapped up in this whole thing that he didn’t even tell me it was _going on_ for three months, Steve; as for the practice, though,” Natasha set her cup back on its saucer with a decisive _clink._

“Yeah, but it’s different-” Natasha’s face went from cordial to murderous in a blink, and Steve found himself back-pedalling, hands already raised in surrender. “Not because I don’t think you could help, it’s just – well – Clint was my backup for months; I feel like I at least owe him an hour or two to knock my ass around the practice room to make up for that.”

“He’s still complaining about his wrist hurting.” Natasha waggled her right hand in the air, bending at the wrist before reaching to pat against the back of Steve’s own where it rested on the table-top. “I think the best thing you could do to _make up_ for it would be to not go AWOL or blow yourself up again, _Captain.”_

“If I remember right, _I_ was not the one who triggered that base to explode, _Agent.”_ Ignoring the lingering touch of Natasha’s hand on his was more difficult than Steve expected, and he was grateful when the check was dropped at their table; less so when – in reaching for it – his hand brushed against Nat’s again, anyway.

She waved dismissively as she tucked the bill in her lap, already slipping out a thin wallet. “I’ve got this one.”

“But-” Steve had out-eaten her three times over, but Natasha only clutched the receipt more tightly, holding it and her cash until their waiter picked it up, but staring Steve down the entire time. He really had no option but to let her do it. Steve wasn’t going to get caught fighting a colleague; well – at least – not in _public_ , and not over a damn dinner bill. “Fine, but you’re going to have to let me pay you back somehow.”

“Hm.” The briefly voiced huff proceeded a moment of Natasha drifting in thought before her eyes narrowed, tracing him up and down. “Are you busy New Year’s Eve?”

“I thought you said you were going to be out of the country?”

“I am, but it’s in Canada… The mission will only take a few hours. _Maybe.”_ Natasha interlaced her fingers, propping her cheek on them as she glanced sideways up at him. “But I could still use backup. Well, _accompaniment;_ it’s at a _party.”_

“I don’t drink – I _can,_ but what’s the point? – and I can’t dance, but…” Embarrassment was a definite possibility, but Natasha Romanov was effectively only asking him to play at being her date for an evening. Steve could easily think of worse repayment options, and – while she was probably the most capable person he knew – if she wanted backup _anyway,_ who was he to refuse? “No; I’m not busy.”

“And I can assume you have a suit?”

“Blue or black?”

“Hmm…” Natasha tipped her head to the other side. “Blue.”

“Alright.” He preferred the blue one, anyway; the black he mostly reserved for funerals. Steve mirrored Nat’s posture, noting that he also needed to consider the current condition of his face. “Should I shave?”

“Clean it up a little, but keep it.”

He nodded, smiling softly. “When do I need to pick you up?”

Natasha laughed, high and bright, red hair swishing around her shoulders as she shook her head. “I know better than to let you drive. Besides, evening dresses and motorcycles don’t work well together; I’ve tried.”

Natasha would be driving. Steve couldn’t be sure whether the rush up his spine was from relief that it wasn’t going to be _him_ or terror that it would be _her._ “Just remember that _some_ people are tall and require leg-room.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be able to squeeze you in, Steve.”

**☆°•°•°•**

Natasha waved back to the owner and her wife one last time before she slipped out into the street behind Steve. He nodded in the direction of his own apartment, and she fell into step beside him. It was a little out of the way, but she had another place in that direction, too. Liho would probably enjoy having the larger apartment to herself for the evening. Natasha chuckled. At least she didn’t have to worry that _her_ cat would be doing the odd things that Clint complained Sergeant did; at worst, there would be a little pile of fur and sick in one of her house-slippers or litter tracked across the sofa.

She pulled her hat down further and looped her arm through Steve’s before jamming her hand back into her pocket. Natasha was freezing, and – even through his coat – Steve seemed warm; that wasn’t even considering that he made a good windbreak, positioned on the street side like he was. Plus, though he had a bit of an odd run, his walking pace was steady, and easy for Natasha to match. _Pleasant, even._

To her left, Steve kept his eyes straight ahead as they walked; they were several blocks from the restaurant before either of them spoke.

“All joking aside, Natasha; you might want to ask Agent Coulson if he can get off base to go with you. Or see if you can’t track down Bruce in the next week.” Steve shrugged sheepishly, tone self-deprecating. “Trust me; your feet will thank you. I really, truly cannot dance for shit.”

“Everyone can dance, Steve.” _Not well, but…_ She looked askance at him, taking a moment to admire his profile cast in sharp relief by the street lamps.

“In my case?” Steve bit his jaw with a derisive chuckle. “It would take a miracle.”

“Well,” Natasha nudged her elbow into his side, using his answering nudge as an opportunity to lean in just a touch closer, “it _is_ the season for those.”

**•°•°•°☆**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **☆°•°•°•**
> 
> Were you not ready for a chapter of holiday romantic dramedy in your _human garbage fires_ story, dear readers? Well, too bad!
> 
> **☆°•°•°•**
> 
> Find [me over here on tumblr and send me a poke,](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com) or [over here on twitter!](https://twitter.com/fadedsepia)
> 
>  **Next Time:** Will there be a next time…?


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